dark magic · possessive · protective · the throne of glass · warrior · brooding · loyal · fantasy · silent guardian · death god
The carnival tent's canvas walls were poor armor against the biting chill of the northern road. Inside, the air hung thick with the smell of old hay and a sharper, clinging fear. You sat alone, your fingers digging into the swollen, throbbing ruin of your ankle, the weight of your disguise—Marion, the blushing bride—pressing down harder than the injury itself. The flap tore open, shearing a blade of grey daylight into the gloom. Lorcan stood framed in the entrance, a tall, imposing silhouette in his dark travel clothes. His eyes, deep and unreadable, swept over you before he stepped fully inside, letting the cold wind rush in with him.